


Release

by MFLuder



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe
Genre: (Referenced) - Freeform, (light), American Sign Language, Bottom Clark Kent, Cock Warming, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Office Blow Jobs, Office Sex, Past Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28144506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MFLuder/pseuds/MFLuder
Summary: Sometimes things get too much for the alien and man who holds the world on his shoulders. When it does, Bruce helps him find release.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020





	Release

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juggling_hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggling_hearts/gifts).



> Prompt: _I would like to read about Bruce being at work, taking conference calls and interviews in his office, all the while Clark deepthroats him under his desk. It could have a lovely ending in which Clark gets bent over the table and pounded on Bruce's office table or against one of the windows with a spectacular Gotham city view._
> 
> juggling_hearts, you probably meant this to be one of those "will they be caught" exhibitionist kind of things, which I only managed to hint at, but I hope you enjoy it anyways.
> 
> I choose DCEU because it's so good with the daddy kink vibes and Bruce being taller than Clark, but honestly, if you want to put it in comics canon, by all means..
> 
> Thanks to my beta who will be revealed later!

Bruce sees it in the tightness around Clark’s eyes, in the way his superhuman body moves stiffly, as though he’s slept in the wrong position. Bruce knows these signs and he sits in quiet thoughtfulness alongside an equally quiet Clark at the glass house’s island bar inside Alfred’s kitchen. The morning lingers on like the frost on the grass, the fog on Clark’s glasses as he half-distractedly blows on his coffee out of habit instead of need. Bruce eventually clears his throat, puts down the _Gotham Times_. He takes a quick glance at his WayneTech watch, assessing the state of the world’s wars, it’s weather patterns, and even reads the USGS chatter regarding seismic activity and decides it’s as good of a day as any.

When Clark finally looks up after a second polite cough, Bruce gives him his undivided attention. His glasses sit a little crooked and his superman curl is slipping from his gelled back hair. The lines around his mouth shouldn’t even be there.

“I need to go into the office today,” he says.

“Mmm,” Clark hums, not as focused as Bruce is yet. His eyes have taken on that faraway look he gets when he’s listening to someone not in the room.

“Yes. I was thinking about heading to the downtown office. The old Wayne Tower.”

“That’s nice,” Clark answers, distracted.

Bruce reaches out and places one hand over Clark’s, turning it over until it rests palm up on the cool marble. He places three fingers on the veins that reveal Clark’s heartbeat. The gesture pulls him back from wherever he was, and he gives a wan smile.

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I don’t mean to be absent.” At least he doesn’t pull his hand back.

“I know. I was thinking I could use some company today.” 

“At work?” Clark asks, a bit bewildered, his eyes slightly wider. It’s cute coming from behind Clark Kent’s glasses. 

Bruce taps three times with his middle finger, right on the vein.

Clark’s body instantly goes taut with understanding and interest, his eyes sharpen, his pulse rocketing for a Kryptonian.

“Will I have time to get ready?” he asks, his free hand already clenching at his trousers, putting a very Kent-like wrinkle into them.

Bruce nods. “I need to get dressed and then I’ll drive downtown. You’ll have half an hour after that.”

The lines are still etched into his usually smooth face, but there’s a spark to Clark’s eye that hadn’t been there this morning when Alfred let him in. 

“Downtown, you said?” Bruce nods. “I’ll let Perry know I’ll be in the field today, then. What can I tease him with?”

“I was going to suggest you let Lois cover you, but I suppose, you could drop a hint about an expose on WayneCorp’s latest revitalization project.”

“Mmm,” Clark hums once more, smile turning into a slick smirk. “Sure I can’t tell him I’m getting an exposé with the boss man himself?”

Bruce lifts his eyebrows, adopting a mocking yet genteel expression. “Why, Clark. I thought The Daily Planet was a Pulitzer Prize winning newspaper, not some gossip rag.”

Clark rolls his eyes, fond, and it’s the most life Bruce has seen out of Clark Kent in over a week. Of course, Superman was always on – but that was the problem, wasn’t it?

“Now, be a good boy. I’ll see you shortly.”

He clocks the shiver that passes through Clark’s body. He takes away his fingers and scolds himself for feeling cold without the touch. It’s not about him; it’s about Clark.

The man, quite literally, takes on the weight of the world. Bruce can help lift a little of it.

~~~

When Bruce greets the front desk receptionist at Wayne Tower, he’s given a polite nod and a hand gesturing the way to his private elevator. When the elevator dings and he exits to his floor, his personal assistant greets him with a somewhat frazzled smile on her face. She’s beautiful, even so; blonde hair pinned primly in a French twist, her suit Chanel, heels Louboutin. Once, she was Bruce’s type – he definitely has a vague recollection of even fucking her. Fortunately, it seems she’s a professional and she’s never hinted at favors or the chance of a relationship the way some of his past flings have.

He does keep her well paid for tolerating him, of course.

“Mr. Wayne,” she greets, voice sharp. “I wasn’t expecting you. Did I miss a memo, do I need to call the board…?”

“Nothing like that,” he says, gently cutting her off. “You’re doing fine, Ms. Sanders. Simply had an unexpected meeting pop up, figured I might as well get some office work done during it. You will tell me when Mr. Kent calls, won’t you?”

“Ah,” she says, sounding oddly knowing. “The reporter. Yes, of course, Mr. Wayne. Please let me know if I can get you anything.”

He’s halfway to his office door, a thick cherry wood, when she says this and he turns back, one hand on the handle, the other in his pocket. “Actually, yes. Mr. Kent enjoys his coffee sweet. I want this article to be positive; please have some sent up? And not from Starbucks, Ms. Sanders.”

She looks scandalized at the thought. “No, of course. I’ll have that brought immediately. I think the place with the Vietnamese coffee around the corner will do nicely.”

Bruce proceeds into his office, wrinkling his nose at the faint musty scent. He really does need to get in here more often. Even with the destruction of the uptown Wayne Tower several years ago, he still only comes here infrequently. It’s not that the office is left untouched; in fact, it looks as though someone as thorough as Alfred has had it cleaned. Only that the books and papers take on the sense of being untouched, more museum than office.

He busies himself with placing his laptop on the wooden oak desk, on taking in the view of Gotham below him, of moving into the private bath for a towel. Clark doesn’t need it, but he’s not one to make his guests uncomfortable. He’s set it under the desk, just in time for his assistant to knock softly and enter once he’s said, “Come.”

She comes in with the old-fashioned coffee cart, gleaming silver revealing sugar, cream, and hot coffee. She places it next to the desk. “Mr. Kent is downstairs. Shall I invite him up?”

Bruce looks at his watch. Exactly on time. “Yes, thank you. And, that’ll be all. After my interview, I’m just going to make a few calls and then head home. I think you deserve an early day; especially after my surprise visit.”

Her penciled brow lifts. “If you’re sure…?”

He nods, tries for warm but bored instead of excited. “Once Mr. Kent is situated, you can go home, go out for an early dinner, whatever you like.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

She leaves the door open per his vague gesture and he pulls up a spreadsheet of Wayne Foundation’s finances and begins to examine them while in the background she calls to the front desk.

He’s actually startled from the work by a knock on the doorframe. Blinking, he looks up. 

“Mr. Wayne?” Clark Kent asks, pushing his glasses up his nose in a delightfully adorable manner that fools the public every time. His brown saddlebag is sliding off his shoulder and his hair looks a little wind-tossed; he probably flew here to make it in the thirty minutes Bruce gave him.

His eyes can’t help but fall to the vee of his khakis, curious, but Clark always has superhuman control over his bodily reactions – at least until he’s in a spot to forget them and let go.

When he looks back up, Clark’s blue eyes are sparkling, having caught Bruce looking. He shrugs in response.

“Son, welcome,” he says, deliberately lowering his voice, somewhere between Brucie Wayne and Bruce’s bedroom voice. “Have a seat. I had coffee brought.”

“Do I detect cardamon,” Clark asks, teasing, though only Bruce would know. “I’m afraid buttering me up will do no good. I’m a reporter, not a sycophant.”

“Of course, of course,” Bruce says, keeping the grin from his lips. “Well, it was worth a try,” he continues, sighing heavily, like all his hopes have been dashed. Over Clark’s curly hair, he can see Ms. Sanders smile while she gathers her slim briefcase and gray peacoat.

“Now, let me explain to you Wayne Corp’s newest project, down near the Narrows…”

Bruce closes the door behind him and when he turns, he sees Clark has dropped his bag on the ground beside the leather chair meant for supplicants to the CEO, his hand loose at his sides.

“C’mere,” Bruce says, taking a step forward.

Clark moves fast, probably using a little speed power and it is that that tells Bruce just how right he is about this. Clark needs a time out, a chance to not have to listen to the cries of seven billion people on the planet.

His kiss is greedy and just as needy, immediately pushing his tongue into Bruce’s mouth, like an over-excited teen, instead of the usual gentle caress. It’s only because Bruce is doing this for Clark that he doesn’t give in, instead tilts Clark’s head, slows him down, softening the kiss rather than giving back as good as he’s given.

Clark whines into the kiss. Bruce lifts a hand and trails it along Clark’s throat, pressing hard enough to feel his windpipe, to give a hint of pressure. The other man immediately stops whining and steps back.

“There’s a good boy,” Bruce says, low and deep, quiet. “Yeah, I’ve got you. It’s alright, Kal.”

Clark prefers his Earth name, having spent thirty-some years with it before discovering his birth name. At times like this, though, Bruce isn’t speaking to the reporter from Kansas; he isn’t even speaking to Superman. He’s speaking to the man underneath, the one who has power and gives of himself every moment, afraid to let even one person die. It weighs on him, regardless of his sun-powered shoulders. Kal is some combination of Clark and Superman: the hero and the man.

Bruce backs away from Clark, moving to sit in the office chair. He’s had one of the original chairs modernized – it is a huge leatherback chair, gold tacks decorating the armrests and back, but it sits on a thick wooden base with wheels instead of legs. It allows Bruce to move, while still maintaining the look of the old Tower office. Once seated, he leans back, the picture of insouciance, legs spread obscenely, head resting on his fist. His other hand dangles enticingly over his thick thighs and cock. He’s not hard, but the pull of his tailored pants doesn’t leave much to the imagination, either. He watches as Clark’s eyes drop quick, then back up, working to maintain that reporter façade.

“Son,” Bruce says, in his most commanding voice, getting into the role. “I’m going to tell you what’s happening today. See, a lot of people, they think they can get an interview with Bruce Wayne for free – freedom of press and all that nonsense. But the thing is, my time is money. So, if you want this interview, Mr. Kent. You’re going to do something for me.”

Clark swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the noise loud in the otherwise quiet office. “Are you…are you propositioning me? That’s sexual harassment, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce lets out his shark smile, the one he typically saves for closing board meetings when the members are being difficult, and he needs to remind them who keeps their paychecks coming. “Not at all. Just a little…tit-for-tat.” He pauses for dramatic effect, watching Clark Kent squirm when he knows Kal is drooling for this, desperate to let go. “Get on your knees.”

Bruce is never more surprised – regardless of the fact that they’ve had this thing for almost a year now – than when Clark drops to his knees like does. A subtle thunk of instant obedience. So trusting after everything Bruce did to him. That the strongest and most kind person on the planet gets on his knees for Bruce, a mere human.

He’s spent a significant amount of time psychoanalyzing himself and what it means, but it was Clark who suggested it, who wants it – Bruce only supplies what he needs. Ultimately, Bruce knows the power is in Kal’s hands and the fact that he lets Bruce have this…words can’t explain it.

“Come here,” he says, adding a purr to his deep voice. His cock plumps a bit as Kal crawls on his knees the two feet of separation between them. “Be a good boy and suck me off, Kent. I’ve got work to do.”

At this point, he drops the charade entirely, holding out one hand to the beautiful man in front of him, his blue eyes piercing and a little wild. When Clark takes his hand to shuffle under the desk, he’s trembling, his touch featherlight, like he’s doing his best to not squeeze and hurt Bruce.

He waits until Clark is wedged under the desk, its size still hardly big enough for a man of Clark’s broad shoulders. Once there, Bruce keeps his face stern but his touch soft as he undoes the first two buttons of the horrendous brown plaid button up that matches a little too precisely with his khakis. He reaches up to pull off the glasses and the transformation begins. It’s not that Clark suddenly becomes Kal simply by taking off the glasses; that’s what so few people would understand about Clark versus Superman. It’s the man’s whole mannerisms changing. Clark is the farm boy, is the reporter, but Clark Kent is still a construct. Part what he was raised and part what he’s made himself to hide his true identity. Clark Kent is nervous where Clark is calm and kind. Superman is stoic and beatific where Kal is knowing serene. But right now, as the glasses slide off and Bruce folds them away in a drawer, all that’s left is the man. A man of great power, but an almost unbearable burden, too.

Bruce brushes his hand through Clark’s curls once. An idle thought, about the feel of his broad, warm hand in comparison to Lois’ small and cool ones and if Clark has a preference, enters his mind, but he mentally shakes it away.

He doesn’t move the chair in yet. Instead, he reaches back into the drawer where he set the thick lensed glasses and brings out a pair of wireless headphones. They look like those made by that hip hop artist, but these are Wayne tech and there is more to them than meets the eye.

Underneath him, mouth barely open, Clark looks up inquisitively, noticing the difference from the last time they did this.

“I made some further modifications,” he murmurs. He slides them over Clark’s ears and then signs: _Okay?_

Clark looks confused for a moment, then his eyes light up in wonder and the lines around his eyes decrease for a moment. He signs back: _I can’t hear_.

Bruce replies: _Good_. Then, he grins, something less shark but still smirking and signs: _Now suck me, boy_.

Clark fondly rolls his eyes but tugs the chair to him, caging himself in. His knees are on the plush towel and his ass rests on his calves. Bruce cranes back in the seat to watch the other man as he teases himself by slowly reaching for Bruce’s belt. He looks determined, but also anticipatory, that one curl falling over his forehead, making him look almost soft when it’s not done for the Superman effect.

Clark’s long fingers gently undo Bruce’s belt, threading the crisp black leather back through the silver metal, a soft jingle accompanying the movement. The he thumbs the button through the hole, loosening the slacks. With it, Bruce lets out an exhale, doing his best to not get too excited. This isn’t Clark just going down on him for a blow job; they do that often and without such fanfare. Of course, Bruce will get pleasure out of this, but the focus is on Kal’s pleasure. On giving him quiet and something he wants and needs for once, when he’s only ever demanded from.

The sound of his zipper being pulled down is torture to Bruce, each little click as Clark continues to tease himself. Even in the dark under his desk, the light spilling around Bruce is enough to show him the mellowing of Clark’s features and eyes as he relaxes in the moment, enjoying the slow pace. By the time Clark has Bruce’s pants entirely undone and reveals his athletic boxers, Bruce is gripping the armrests, mentally calculating baseball statistics to himself in an effort to stay mostly soft.

Clark looks up at him with a wink, like he knows how much energy Bruce is putting into staying calm – and he’s sure he does know. Even if he can’t hear Bruce’s heartbeat right now, courtesy of the headphones, he can certainly feel the tremors passing through Bruce, see the tension in his thighs. His big hand slips into Bruce’s shorts and tugs on his cock, pulling it and his balls out enough that the elastic band of the underwear sits snapped underneath them.

Bruce lays one hand on the back of Clark’s head, careful not to jostle the headphones, and watches as Clark leans forward, his hand still on Bruce’s cock, and takes Bruce into his mouth. It’s not subtle, more than the tip, but he’s also not trying to deepthroat. Clark just wants a true mouthful so he can begin suckling.

Bruce jerks forward once, the heat and wetness so perfect on his cock, before he settles down. Clark gives a little half-smile, as best as he can with Bruce’s cock taking up most of his mouth, and then he closes his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh, relaxing until he’s almost boneless, simply holding Bruce’s cock in his mouth.

It takes far longer for Bruce to calm down, his cock having plumped up to half mast when Clark’s mouth first took it in, and it takes him a few minutes of meditative breathing for it to go soft once more. When it does, he pulls his computer towards him, and begins to work on the company finances to determine what next year’s R&D budget will initially be.

He keeps his hand on Clark’s head though, occasionally and distractedly petting at him – mindful of the headphones. Given the laxness in Clark’s body, he decides the upgrades are working. 

If Clark wanted to, he could seek out the seven billion voices calling for help, a planet in chaos with always some kitten in a tree or an orphan left on the streets. Its these small and individual tragedies that Clark fights with and holds onto so hard. Superman can stop a train or whisk a child from the path of a car or bring half a nation to higher ground in a flood. Superman can catch someone falling from a cliff – but he can’t stop the cliff from existing.

The point is that, Clark now has to actively _try_ to hear them. 

He loses himself into the warmth of Clark, the hint of saliva that drips down from where he’s drooling around Bruce’s girth, and the numbers. Once he’s in the mindset, Bruce can relax almost as easily as Clark, though he doesn’t achieve the same headspace. He doesn’t quite understand it – if he’s going to put someone’s genitals in his mouth, he’s going to use that mouth, to give them pleasure, to give _himself_ pleasure. Bruce is a man of action and submitting has never been his style. 

Clark struggled to explain it to him, but after the second time he fell asleep while giving Bruce a blow job, they’d had a conversation. An awkward, stilted one, but a conversation, nonetheless.

It doesn’t happen all the time. Bruce gets phenomenal oral from Clark. But there’s something comforting Clark finds in cockwarming, in being _useful_ without being _needed_ , that lets him get out of his head, to disassociate from his everyday demands – whether that is Perry and the _Planet_ or the world always being on the brink of some new kind of disaster. Doing this is the one time Clark truly shuts off. The rest of the time, Bruce is happy to compete with the world, understanding his mission as much as anyone ever could. After all, Clark isn’t the only one to have left mid-sex.

He continues to pet Clark’s soft hair with his left hand while he performs excel equations with his right. At one point, he even calls Lucius, asking after some numbers he’s unsure of their origin.

When he puts down the phone, there is renewed interest below. Clark has moved his head back, no longer holding Bruce in his mouth, but now just the tip, suckling on it, encouraging precum with his tongue dipping into the slit. The gesture reminds Bruce entirely too much of their sounding sessions, the tease of dropping a thin rod into the tip of Clark’s cock, the way the man will seize up, fullness putting him on the edge while Bruce fucks him.

Bruce instantly hardens, his cock filling Clark’s mouth once more, the man gagging on it, ratcheting up Bruce’s interest. It’s all show, of course; Bruce doesn’t for one moment consider himself a big enough man to choke Kal-El – any more than a sound would be able to stretch out his slit over time. Gag reflexes are only for humans. But Clark knows Bruce likes the thought, the illusion of control and being able to choke him and so Clark – kindly – plays along.

But suddenly, Clark is removing himself from Bruce’s cock, drool dripping down it, wetting Bruce’s slacks, and diving deeper, nosing underneath his now-hard cock to get to his balls, taking them into his wet mouth. He tongues over them, one at a time, making it very hard for Bruce to concentrate on his spreadsheets. The heat travels from his balls into his body, making his groin pulse with need where five minutes ago, he was calm and soft.

“Clark,” he moans, low, knowing he can’t be heard. He spreads his legs a bit more, pulls Clark in. He lifts up his hips, rocking his balls into Clark’s open, waiting mouth. Freshly shaved, in anticipation of this, the smooth skin is especially sensitive, and he swears Clark knows, _knows_ how all his little kitten licks and small nips are affecting him. How, when Clark reaches even further with his tongue, tries to get at Bruce’s hole – how he clenches, not from fear but anticipation.

It seems though that Clark isn’t done yet, as his licks return to gentle sucking. Then, swiftly, Clark goes down on Bruce until his nose touches the base of Bruce’s pelvis.

A satisfied hum meets Bruce’s choked off grunt.

“Fuck, Kal,” he says, feeling unrestrained, able to express the emotion bleeding through because the other can’t hear it right now. He begins to move his hips, the smallest bit, just enough to provide a rocking motion in Clark’s mouth, to feel the saliva dripping down, soaking through his underwear and slacks. Bruce moves his hand from Clark’s head to his throat, feeling the pressure of his own cock pressing out from the inside, leaving an impression he’s bigger than Clark should be able to take. He rubs up and down, first gently, feeling Clark almost purr around him. It’s less moan, more noise vibration.

Then, he grabs rough, holding Clark in place, awed at the choking noises and how Clark lets him do it, without protest, nothing more than a soft gurgle. Clark could tear his cock off, throw the desk, destroy him in an instant. Where once he found it terrifying and something to be stopped, now Bruce revels in it, knowing he’s allowed a little glimpse into Clark’s desire to appease. To make someone he likes _happy_. To be at someone else’s mercy.

Bruce comes then, the strength of his orgasm overtaking him as Clark sucks and massages him with his throat, making those little gagging noises, all while Bruce knows he’s happy milking Bruce of his cum, taking it deep.

As he comes down, he lets go, his hand smoothing back from Clark’s throat to the pulse behind his ear – barely even elevated. He lays his hand back down heavy on the back of Clark’s neck, keeping it gentle but commanding, not letting Clark get up.

It’s fine because the man doesn’t want to; instead, seemingly happy to go back to mouthing at Bruce’s softening cock, cleaning it up. Simply holding it in his mouth once more.

“Good boy,” Bruce murmurs, even as he taps it out in morse code on Clark’s skin. He can’t see the smug face he knows Clark is making, but he can feel the tension release further.

Bruce sinks further into the chair, spreading his legs wider, encouraging Clark settle in closer between his thighs. He feels a huff of air on his damp crotch. Clark relaxes further under his palm at the base of his neck and sinks down a little further. He gently rolls his tongue around, almost playing with Bruce in his mouth like a pet might a toy.

He slowly falls back into his work, Clark’s mouth a warm soft presence once more. There’s no telling how long this will go on. Clark’s needs vary, once he’s given the chance to stop being _him_. He’s warmed Bruce’s cock for upwards of seven hours on more than one occasion. 

An hour of calm later, the mouthing gets more intentional, almost like Clark is waking up, perhaps having fallen asleep suckling. Clark starts shifting by going up on his knees, his neck pressing firm back into Bruce’s hand is the second indication another round is coming. This time, a hand joins in the fray and Bruce gets hard quickly once more.

Of course, once he’s hard, Clark pulls back, teasing and making his touches featherlight. He tongues at the tip, strong licks that take away Bruce’s precum until he feels like his body is producing it especially fast, just to compensate. He presses his hand down harder on Clark’s neck and get a contented rumble from underneath the desk.

By the time his legs are shaking, he can feel Clark’s smile around him in every touch and tease. He knows exactly what he’s doing to Bruce and is reveling in it. Just as Bruce is about to come though, Clark’s hand lashes out and grips him tight, stemming the orgasm. It’s so violent, his knee knocks into the top of the desk and he bites back a loud curse that no one is around to hear anyway.

When he settles down, he can literally feel the shake of Clark’s shoulders from his laughter. Bruce pulls back and glares down at him. It’s damn hard to be made at someone laughing with your cock teasing their lips, though. Bruce finds himself giving a small wry smile and then trying to coax Clark back down.

It seems he has other plans, though, instead letting him drop and bounce back up, cock bobbing in front of his face while he signs: _fuck me_.

Bruce looks into mischievous blue eyes set in a face the epitome of innocence, and snorts. He signs back: _what if I was on a call?_

_You could fuck me anyway._

Bruce raises his eyebrow at that. That’s new.

_You know how to be quiet._

Clark doesn’t pause or wait for Bruce to answer. He just uses his strength and pushes back the chair, his expression somehow both serious and playful. He stands and for a brief moment, Bruce is in awe of the alien. The sun catches Clark just right and he looks like some kind of angel.

Then he cracks a smile and the headphones glint and he’s back to just being Clark, a big romantic goof. Bruce will never understand why he chose _him_ , after everything.

But neither sappiness nor introspection is what is needed right now. Instead, Bruce turns a cool eye up and down Clark, cataloguing everything from his height to the brown curls at the base of his neck – flattened by Bruce’s own hand – to the somehow still pristinely wrinkle-free ugly plaid shirt. Then, he pointedly looks downward at the hard line of Clark’s dick in his khakis and the obnoxious press of it against the fabric.

 _Do you deserve it?_ he signs, gently fisting his bare cock, putting it on display.

Clark’s look is hungry. The corner of his mouth inches up and his head tilts to the side. It’s a challenge.

Bruce is up in an instant, a hand clenching around Clark’s throat, flexing his fingers once he has a good grip. The other man lets himself be pushed back, all the way to the glass window that overlooks the old part of Gotham. _Let’s_ – because he’s Superman and if he didn’t want it, Bruce would be dead, or at least out of commission.

Clark only arches into it, though, his eyes rolling back as he thrusts his hips out. He looks up at Bruce, a taunt in his eyes, even as his body acts submissive. His lips, big and soft, demand a kiss and Bruce pulls him in by the hand at his throat. He devours him, loves the way Clark opens right up, lets Bruce _claim_ him with lips and teeth and tongue.

He shoves Clark away, forcing him back against the window once more, flipping him over so that his face is pressed against the glass, breath fogging up the window. Bruce makes quick work of Clark’s pants, tearing at the cheap brown belt and the button on the pants, shoving them down. Because this was planned, for once, there’s no uniform Bruce has to get through first and he gets a gorgeous view of Clark’s tight ass that sits up high, exposed in the sunlight. Clark is pale all over and almost entirely hairless except for when he parts his legs, pressing his ass up higher, forcing himself into an arch, and shows off his hole. There, right in between his cheeks, is a small bit of hair that Bruce drags his fingers through, taunting Clark with pressure at his hole, but not providing.

“Are you going to be a good boy?” he asks out loud, even knowing Clark’s senses aren’t focused on his hearing right now, but following his words with his hand on Clark’s waist, pressing his hips back down to get the message across; Clark calms down. 

Bruce steps back, knowing Clark will stay put. He takes in the man, the _alien_ , who has himself spread for Bruce; the long arch of his back, his head resting on his forearms pressed to the window. Dark hair starts soft and light on his thighs, growing thicker and coarse as it travels down his well-defined calves and to his feet. He can’t quite see in between Clark’s cheeks like this, but the darkness entices him. He’s almost tempted to drop to his knees and eat him out, worship Kal as he deserves, Bruce one of many supplicants.

It doesn’t help, the spread of the city beneath him; Bruce’s city. It’s not Metropolis’ bright lights and windows glinting back at him, that shiny veneer making him feel like he doesn’t belong. No, Clark’s sundrenched body is surrounded by Batman’s city, hidden spots kept in the dark because the skyscrapers reflect back the sun with gothic architecture and grey or black façades. Yet still, Kal stands out, soaking in the sun, even as he steadily begins to breathe heavier, anticipation and arousal rising as he watches Bruce watch him.

 _Beautiful_ , Bruce signs.

Clark’s only response is a darkening of his eyes from sky blue to ocean blue.

Bruce moves back forward, sensing Clark’s impatience. He steps up, pressing his erection into Clark’s backside as he slides his hands underneath his shirt, feeling the planes of muscle as they twitch and flex under his fingertips. Beneath him, Clark lets out a sigh, grinding back into him. Bruce smirks.

He flicks his wrists and buttons go flying with little pings of noise as they hit the desk and bookshelves and window. Clark’s pink mouth drops open a bit, wet and glistening. It’s still swollen from warming Bruce’s cock.

Tilting his upper body back but keeping his hips in place to rut against Clark’s ass, he presses one hand to his head of curls, keeping his face pressed to the cold glass, while the other effectively strips off his hideous shirt and pushes the khakis down to the floor.

It continues to surprise him, the way Clark allows himself to be naked, exposed, while Bruce stands behind him, dressed but for his fly being open. He gets a thrill from, and even more knowing Clark _chooses_ this.

He grabs into his pocket, finds the small bottle of lube and preps his fingers. He slides them down, leaving a trail of lube on Clark’s skin from the little dimples in his back, down his ass crack. Then, he presses in, still teasing, spreading the lube around, getting him nice and wet. It’s more for Bruce’s benefit than Clark’s. Sometimes, he’ll rail him raw because it’s what Clark wants in that moment. But Bruce likes him wet and dripping, desperate and heated around his fingers before he even gets his cock in.

He settles for something in between this time, getting Clark efficiently prepped with one and then two fingers, feeling Clark sink into the window, to spread his legs more so Bruce can move easier between them.

Then, once Bruce is ready and pressing a third finger to his rim, he says his first words out loud in hours. “Bruce,” Clark whines, pressing back. His fingers scramble against the window and if he weren’t so controlled, even in his wantonness, Bruce knows the window would crack.

Bruce’s hand goes to Clark’s left hip, gripping it tight. He leans in to bite at his neck, getting skin tight in between teeth, panting heavy and hot against Clark.

 _Mine_ , he taps out along Clark’s hip, demanding.

“Bruce,” Clark sighs again, his voice slightly nasal, more midwestern than usual.

Bruce takes himself in hand and places himself against Clark’s rim, feeling it tense and twitch against him. He guides himself in and pushes, pushes, until his cockhead pops in. Clark whines under him, but stays still, per the request of Bruce’s hand against his hip.

He drops his head to Clark’s shoulder, letting himself feel the way Clark’s body welcomes him, milks him, tries to suck him in deeper. He’s wet and so fucking _tight_ , like every time. They’ve played with that, too, of course: stretching Clark wide, getting him sloppy. He’s always tight again after.

Moving his hand up and into Clark’s hair, gripping it roughly, Bruce begins to slide in further, feeling like he’s forcing his way in, with how tight Clark grips him. He fucks in, inch by inch, until Clark is panting, pushing into the pressure of Bruce’s hand on his head, and Bruce has bottomed out.

“Fuck me, Bruce,” Clark chokes out, tossing his head back. It jostles the headphones and, worried the voices will take the moment away, Bruce adjusts them. Clark, his hands pressed wide to the glass, throws him a grateful look.

Bruce gives a hard stare back, and pulls out, thrusting back in quick, cramming his cock back inside Clark. With a fast and hard exhale, Clark turns back to the window, looking down on the city. Bruce then takes control back, keeping both of his hands in a tight clench, but using the one on Clark’s hip to pull him back and up, to spread more obscenely against the window. Clark takes him with ease, pushing back for more, moving with Bruce, clamping down on Bruce inside him as he fucks in, harsh and fast. 

The pace is more than Bruce has ever used with anyone else and he finds it freeing, the fact that he doesn’t have to worry about his own strength or desire. Clark gets off on the roughness because it isn’t so much _rough_ as it is something that gives him feeling. Clark is still often loving and sweet and even tentative in his own touches, but when he gets going like this, when he gets these breaks, he encourages Bruce to take liberties.

Suddenly desperate, feeling his orgasm build up deep in his groin, making his legs start to shake, Bruce pulls Clark back off the window, only his hands keeping him up, while Bruce takes his hips in both hands. He finds the position more stable to fuck as hard and deep as he needs and with a grunting moan, Bruce comes for the second time today. He feels Clark milk him, tense around him and clench down, until he’s fucking Bruce more than Bruce is doing the fucking, keeping him hard and sensitive as he takes his own cock in hand, jacking himself off. Bruce continues to move his hips in a circular grinding motion, dragging his cock over and over Clark’s prostate until he feels him seize up and start to come in his own hand.

Then, meanly, Bruce pulls out, leaving only his cockhead inside Clark, keeping him stretched wide and gasping for more, a long moan escaping as he catches his cum in his hand.

Bruce pulls out then, watching his hole try to close. He sees his cum inside and shoves it back in with his thumb while Clark catches his – metaphorical – breath against the window. He sinks to his knees and Bruce catches him, running his hands over his shoulders and back. Clark leans up for a kiss and Bruce obliges, thumb running over his high cheekbone as he does.

After a few minutes like that, Bruce pulls away gently, going to fetch a warmed towel from the office bathroom and a washcloth. He first wipes down Clark’s groin and then his hand, finally moving to his backside until he’s no longer tacky with lube or cum. He wraps the towel around Clark’s hips, letting it fall to cover him. He returns to the bathroom once more, this time with a fresh set of clothes he keeps here for days like this.

Kal continues to kneel there, head lowered, and eyes shut, the headphones still on. Bruce places the clothes to the side on the floor and carefully strokes his hand over Clark’s face, then down and, using his pointer finger, he lifts the man’s chin, looking into eyes that have returned to their usual bright blue.

Clark nods, eyes soft. Bruce slowly takes off the headphones, leaving Clark with a few tangled curls and a deep sigh as everything rushes back in.

“Everything alright?” he asks, quiet, knowing Clark will be especially sensitive for a few minutes.

Clearly taking stock, Clark nods and then smiles, just a curl of his lips. “A little girl’s dog escaped, but her neighbors already caught her. No new wars, only a few skirmishes in the last few hours.” He pauses, swallows. “I’m good.”

It’s never not astonishing, to see Kal’s eyes turn bright and happy, relieved, and how he looks for reassurance from Bruce. He can’t help but wonder – did he do this with Lois, too? Bruce isn’t jealous someone else came before, but something in his gut always turns at the thought that Clark would have trusted anyone else, that anyone else has ever seen him so unguarded even as his logical side understands and even questions why Clark would ever trust _Batman_. Lois would never have taken advantage, but _someone_ might have.

In the blink of an eye, Clark is dressed again and standing in front of him, glasses back on and looking like a slightly ruffled reporter. “You’ve done great work, Bruce. Whatever you did, it was a lot easier to tune out this time. You should probably pass those onto R&D.”

Bruce feels the corner of his mouth turn up. “No. I think I’ll keep them for single use only.”

Clark smiles back, fond. He doesn’t say it, but his thanks are in the soft, indulgent kiss he leans up to give Bruce. When he pulls back, his eyes take in Bruce’s face and hair, dancing over his features. “You’re so good to me.”

Embarrassed, feeling exposed much more so than Clark was only minutes ago, Bruce clears his throat and says, “Son,” about to issue a warning, but it’s all he gets out before Clark kisses him again.

“Fuck,” Clark whispers against his lips. Then, “Robbery in progress in Metropolis. I’ll be by later. Hopefully Alfred will save me some of those cookies I can smell him baking.”

Then he’s gone, probably to get his suit and stop the robbery. Bruce is left shaking his head and feeling just as fond as Clark looked before flying off to save his own city.

Speaking off, sated and knowing Clark’s worry lines aren’t so deep for the moment, it’s probably time for Batman to return to the Cave and begin work on the latest Riddler tease.

He starts to pack up, sparing only one glance at where he’d just fucked Clark and the print of his forehead against the glass.


End file.
